


The Bottom of a Cup

by LadyRevolution



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Book 1, Drugs, F/M, Kissing, Mates, One Shot, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:35:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25049989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyRevolution/pseuds/LadyRevolution
Summary: Set under the mountain during book 1, it's been two weeks since Feyre's second trial and she's waking up to Tamlin's silence and Rhys' humanity. In a non-canon plot twist, it's Amarantha's birthday, and she has a surprise that sees Rhys and Feyre as the night's entertainment.What per chance, enrages Tamlin? Oh, only seeing Rhys and Feyre together! EXPLICIT.
Relationships: Feyre Archeron/Rhysand
Comments: 4
Kudos: 106





	The Bottom of a Cup

**Author's Note:**

> So funnily enough, I watched a tik tok of a cos play of Feyre under the influence of Fae wine, and it inspired this whole thing. Check the tik tok out here: https://vm.tiktok.com/JRuqYnJ/
> 
> And here is the song that I played ON REPEAT for the several hours that I spent writing this. It's grimey and sexy, and ugh it's an amazing song that you need to listen to while you read this: Such a Whore by Javia, Potato Remix (https://open.spotify.com/track/7rr1vspgtwlyyBDI3APbB8?si=BwqngsWKQDCJKDoPTktwmw)

The guards came to fetch Feyre for the night, drawing her out of her reverie staring at the cold stones of her prison cells’ ceiling. Time had become irrelevant during the day since her chores for Amarantha had ceased; there was only the drowsy misery of waking up, dizzy from the intoxicating wine from the night before, and the nothingness of waiting for it to happen all over again. She was thankful the drinks leeched away her the unhappiness of her days and the memories of her nights, she only wished there were a way to make the effects last longer. She knew she was spiralling, and she didn’t care.

The weight her chest as crushing, her breaths getting shallower every day. The act of breathing was regarded as natural and easy but not to Feyre, not anymore. Her breaths were a reminder of how fragile her body was that expanded with each inhale, of how limited in number they were, of how indifferent Tamlin seemed to her meagre existence. She tried her best to empty her thoughts, to feel nothing, because as soon as she let that guard down, unwelcome doubt and depression cascaded over, choking her. She could die feeling empty or she could die feeling drowned under emotions; it was no hesitation on her part to pick emptiness.

The guards coughed as they waiting impatiently outside her now opened cell door. Feyre’s limbs were tired, tired in a way that no amount of sleep or medicine could treat. There would be no healing, but there would be forgetfulness waiting at the bottom of a cup. Even the opportunity to see Tamlin was becoming less motivating to get up, to move, to do anything. But as much as she hated that Fae wine, she also loved it. Craved it.

Feyre shakily stood up from her dark corner, her knees aching from sustained stillness. It had been two weeks since she’d survive the second trial on pure luck. The event had reminded her of the shame she carried, to be so low, so poor. She was nothing but a spectacle, but pondered in dread the laughter that would follow her if everyone realised she couldn’t read. She couldn’t tell what would be more embarrassing, if they’d her treat her worse than they did currently, or if she’d already reached the rock bottom.

Since the second trial, she didn’t quite know where she stood with Rhys anymore. The fact that he’d helped her was baffling. If she didn’t know any better, she’d say his humanity was showing. After months of detesting and fearing him, she had recently begun to realise that she was safest under this mountain in his presence. For all he humiliated her, he never took liberties where most men would. She saw a sadness and a numbness leak from his eyes occasionally, not completely unfamiliar to her own. Her was not an ally, but perhaps he wasn’t an enemy either.

Whatever he was, he was waiting at the end of the hall. Her guards walked with their heavy presence just a few feet behind her, no longer needing to drag her in their escort. She had long since surrendered to the whims of the court, including walking wherever she was told.

“Feyre darling,” Rhys smirked, turning around, his arms spread in welcome, “how I’ve missed your smiling face.” He clapped his hands together once, rubbing them together in humour at her clearly deadpan face. After a moment of surveying her up and down carefully, he clicked his fingers and the two servants who draw her body each night appeared from around the corner. “Just like you did it last night, ladies.”

Leaving her guards behind, Rhys, his servants and Feyre walked in silence to the room she always changed in. Rhys was blathering to Feyre, but she paid him no heed. He let her get away with her insolence, she knew that, but he didn’t seem to mind the lack of reciprocity in their gossiping session.

“Your dear friend Lucien seemed to have a lovely time with his brothers today,” he said, catching her attention. He knew that moment she’d snapped out of the silence that lived inside her head and smiled at being the reason why. By this time, they’d reached the room. He leant forward to open it half way, and stopped looking back at her, daring her with his eyes to brush past him in their close proximity. Although he hadn’t taken liberties, he did like to flirt and tease her just a little, something she’d more come to roll her eyes at than fear. Feyre sighed at this game they played most nights. She stepped forward to walk past him, but when he shoulder brushed his chest, Rhys straightened up, stepping minutely closer to her. The movement caused her to freeze and turn to him. Her nose was only inches from his chin, he was very close. When he tilted his head down to look her in the eye, she backed back into the door frame, and held her breath, looking away.

“Feyre,” he whispered softly, drawing out the syllables of her name. She shivered at the wild energy that lived within the stillness of that moment. She was unsure at the cause of the tension in her body. It wasn’t quite fear, but she couldn’t tell if that was because fear had deadened slightly since numbness had set in, or if Rhys invoked more than just fear in her.

“Feyre darling,” he whispered again, his breath landing softly on her forehead. His voice was edged in slight playfulness and slight … something else. “While I think the top of your head is lovely, I prefer to speak to your face,” he grinned. Mild annoyance ran through Feyre. She looked up, defiance setting her chin high. Despite the proximity narrowing to his face just inches from her own, she did not flinch.

“Rhysand,” Feyre replied chidingly. At that sign of strength, Rhy’s grin widened. “What do you want?” Feyre crossed her arms, but almost immediately wanted to uncross them. Now that her arms were pressed into Rhys’s torso, she couldn’t withdraw or he’d see her embarrassment, and she’d done her very best to not let anyone see that, no matter how low she felt.

Rhys licked his lips, glancing down at the place their skin pressed against each other, a mischievous glint in his eye. He shifted his weight to rest his empty hand on the door frame just above her head, leaning even closer to her now. A moment of waiting sat between them, Rhys waiting for her to pull away. But enemy or not, ally or not, Rhys was magnetic in a way that draw her back into living in a way not much else did under this mountain. While she considered that he might be this way all the time, Feyre very much blamed the lack of stimulus in her life to the poor decision she made to not pull away instantly. She couldn’t help by darkly wonder if, in another lifetime, she might have pursue him, to find out just how magnetic he was.

“Magnetic, huh?” Rhys smirked; his eyes dark. Their eyes froze on each other’s, Feyre spiralling into the dark depths of his iris, before snapping back and stalking away to the other side of the room.

“Stop spying in my head!” Feyre growled, throwing hand at the air in anger. Rhys simply turned his head from where they bot here were a moment ago, the space beneath him and door looking empty.

“I’m rather flattered, Feyre darling. You’re rather magnetic yourself, especially when you vibrate with such little fury,” he bantered naughtily. As his wondered down Feyre’s body again, she shook her head in disbelief at his audacity. “I look forward to seeing tonight’s dress.” He stepped inside the room now, letting in the two servants Feyre had embarrassingly forgotten were just behind them. Though they’d surely witnessed the whole exchange, they let on nothing, simply readying their supplies in the middle of the room.

Feyre stood at the edges of the room, waiting for Rhys to leave before undressing. Instead, he leaned into the wall, watching her intently. Her eyes widened at the meaning behind his continued presence. “Surely you don’t mean to watch me undress?” she yelled indignantly.

“Why, you don’t want me to? I thought it would be a rather pleasant experience for us both,” he chuckled to himself darkly. “But if you’re that bothered, you could always ask me nicely.”

Feyre inhaled deeply, annoyance fighting with something akin to fun. This game with Rhys was fun, she realised. “It would please me greatly, my Lord, if you’d get the hell out,” Feyre smiled smally but darkly.

Rhys rose to the challenge in her voice, not taking any offence to her crudeness. “I do so love to please,” he murmured lowly, his voice sending light butterflies through Feyre.

In past months, Feyre would have felt sick to her stomach at the suggestiveness of their conversation, but she’d since grown accustomed to his provocativeness. He liked to get a rise out of her and she knew it. For almost always gave in, got mad, and shooed him away when she could. But time had leant bravado to her numbness.

Not giving a moment’s thought to it, she ripped away her tunic, leaving her bare breasts open to the elements. Although the room was warmed than her cell, the coldness that never left the court caused her nipples to harden. Rhys had frozen on the spot, his eyes tracking her every movement. She bent down, her small breasts swaying with the movement, and pulled down her pants. To Rhys’s obvious surprise, she wore no under things. Underwear was seemingly a luxury not afforded to her status as prisoner.

Slowly, like a predator stalking its prey, Feyre crossed the room, one foot in front of the other. She let the air flow over her body, her head high and shoulder back, a sway to her hips. Many nights spent close to nudity had ridden her of the modesty that would previously cripple her from ever doing such a provocative action.

To Feyre’s surprise, Rhys’ chest was somewhat heaving under his now ragged breaths. She smiled broadly, enjoying taking back the power in the room. He’d seen her close to naked, the silk rags she wore every night not hiding much. But here she was, naked in front of him, and unafraid. Somehow, she knew he wouldn’t harm her, wouldn’t go too far. For all he’d humiliated and paraded her, he had kept a distance.

Feyre reached up to the buttons of his shirt, letting her small hand slide through an opening to touch his bare skin. Whether it be her cold hands or the shock of such an action, Rhys leaned his head back to touch the wall behind him, inhaling a shaky breath. She waiting a moment before his eyes pulled back down to hers, wide and searching. She corners of her mouth simply flicked up slightly as she scratched her nails down lightly when pulling her hand away.

But she’d pulled her hand all the way back, Rhys quickly snatched her wrist, holding it steady, hovering in the air between them. They breathed in tandem, unsure what either of them were waiting for, but waiting nonetheless. Rhys shifted his hand on hers to hold her fingers. Bringing the back of her hand up to his mouth, he kissed it gently and longingly, his lips dragging a damp line as he slowly moved back into standing straight.

He held her hand still as he lowered it to their sides. “Magnetic,” he started softly, “feels a rather mild label for your beauty.” He squeezed Feyre’s hand once more before letting go and stepping to the side. He motioned to the servants Feyre had once again forgotten were in the room, damn their quietness.

Feyre came back to herself, losing her bravado suddenly, and questioning why she’d ever thought that was a good idea. Her naked skin now felt shameful not empowering. Luckily her body was removed from Rhys’ view soon enough as a servant stood in front of her, moving her away.

When Rhys spoke again, he was at the door, now mostly hidden behind it on his way out. His voice lifted Feyre’s head from staring violently at the ground. “I’ll see you soon, darling,” he nodded at her, his composure returned to him. The mischief that had accompanied his usual demeanour dropped sourly as he informed her, “It’s a special night for Amarantha and the court. We should both keep our wits about us and be on our best behaviour.”

As Rhys closed the door swiftly, Feyre was wondering what the night would bring, and sinking back into her desire to drink and forget. The liveliness that sparked in her the last few minutes were short lived and left little remnants to hide behind in the overwhelming oppressiveness of this place.

***

While the servants drew on the elaborate tattoos over her body for the night, Feyre spent equal time beating herself up for her boldness and just straight up finding she didn’t care enough to be too embarrassed. The decision to own her boldness came with the acceptance that Rhys had obviously found her attractive, and she found … that she liked that Rhys responded like he did.

It was confusing loving Tamlin but seeing no response from him even when she was on the brink of death. After all this time, he’d barely acknowledged her. She knew that Lucien believed Tamlin did it to save her from Amarantha’s wrath, but if the roles were reversed, she would not be able to stay silent. Feyre was already facing Amarantha’s wrath, so how would Tamlin showing concern for her make a difference? She was lost, and furious, and sad, and alone, and Rhys made he feel less empty. She was trying and failing to justify her own actions to herself.

Pushing those thoughts from her mind, Feyre began analysing what Rhys meant by ‘a special night for Amarantha and the court’. At worst, it could mean torturing more people. Undoubtedly, whatever was planned, Feyra would be a source of entertainment, whether by Rhys or Amarantha’s hand. Remembering that Rhys was the cause for her degradation made her hate him all over again.

Talking to herself in her mind, she emphatically said, _I hate him_. As if responding to her own consciousness, she whispered back, _so hate him_. Unsettled by the counterpart to this hate, she said, _but I’m attracted to him_. Again, finding peace in her own confliction, her mind said back to her, _so be attracted to him._ Surrendering to her own complicated feelings, Feyre reminded herself that Rhys was a victim too. That people weren’t black and white, and she didn’t have to be either. Feyre gave herself permission to not deny herself one of the only things tethering her to this world, no matter have fucked up it might be.

Taking a deep breath, Feyre lifted her chin once more, just in time to enter to throne room. She was ready to face anything it might throw at her.

As she entered, she noticed that the court was both more boisterous and tense than it usually was. It was if everyone was doing their best to throw a great party but were waiting for something terrible to happen. She was strong and unhesitant as she strolled into the room, feeling the dozens of eyes on her but not refusing not to meet any of them. Tamlin wouldn’t acknowledge her anyway, and Rhys would come to her soon enough, she knew that.

So she swaggered right to the table with the Fae wine on the other side of the room, her silk barely there dress billowing behind her with the bravado she swayed her hips with. With her tunnel vision locked on the table, she failed to see Eris approach her until he was directly in her path.

“Little human, it’s a pleasure to see all of you again,” he said as he leered at all her exposed skin. She forced herself not to shiver in disgust and humiliation under his gaze; what a difference the eyes watching her made to how she felt about her body. As she looked away from his predatory stare, she noticed the two goblets of wine in his hands. Following her eyes, Eris nodded and smirked, “yes, it’s for you,” as he shoved one goblet into her hand, it spilling onto her black dress slightly.

Feyre was hesitant to drink from it, suspicious of the fact that Eris, who had shown much dislike towards her, had gotten her a goblet ahead of her arrival. She was about to hand it back when Amarantha called out, her voice travelling across the room. “A toast,” she announced, as merrily as I’d see her before, “to celebrate my birthday.”

Cheers broke out amongst the quite packed throne room. Eris shouted, raising his cup, “long may your reign.”

Amarantha, smiled viciously at Eris and the rest of the crowd. With her and everyone’s goblets still raised in the air, Amarantha paused in her scan of the room. “Rhysand. You do not have a goblet.”

When Feyre turned to follow Amarantha’s gaze, she saw Rhys standing several feet behind her, by himself. He looked caught out, as if he were planning to put his hands were planning to enter the cookies jar, but wasn’t quite there yet.

His shock melted quickly into a small grin, “let me remedy that, my lady.” He was quick to begin stalking to the drinks table.

When he was just about to pass Feyre and Eris, Amarantha called out again, “Eris, be a dear, and give him yours.”

Again, Rhys froze. But only for a second before he turned to face Amarantha, a swagger in his stance. “I can’t possibly rob Eris of the opportunity to toast you too. Everyone should celebrate this joyous occasion, my lady,” Rhys countered, his disposition giving away nothing, but his words clearly held an understanding of … something. Something was happening, but Feyre wasn’t in the loop and would have to wait for Amarantha to pay her cards.

Eris turned dutifully to Rhysand and extended the goblet in his hand. “It’s not worries at all, Rhysand. Why, it’s my pleasure.” The grin Eris released was savage, barely hidden behind courtly politeness.

As Rhys saddled up next to Feyre, they both looked at one another, contempt in their eyes. They both held the goblets that had been in Eris’s hands just moments before, and while Rhys seemed more knowledgeable than her, she could guess. Something was in the drinks. Something Rhys didn’t like. He had a strong hold of his expressions but this time, panic was leaking through the cracks and it made Feyre scared. She wanted oblivion, but without Rhys to watch over her sober …

“To our lady’s health,” Eris shouted.

“To her immortal power,” shouted Beron, Eris’ father, cheered.

“To her vision,” another crowed.

Together, everyone raised their goblets high in the air, before lowering it their mouths, taking big gulps. Rhys and Feyre looked at each other in fear, unsure what would happen if they refused. Rhysand was the first to decide. He took a deep breath and drank half of the goblet in one go before throwing the rest to the ground. He was clearly angry, but Amarantha’s games couldn’t be avoided, they both knew that.

As Feyre drank up, she wasn’t as careful as Rhys to only drink half. It didn’t matter what was in it as long as it promised an escape. As the liquor touched her tongue, she knew it to not be Fae wine. It was milder; a less potent version of the wine, but somehow more sweeter. That unique sweetness had her licking her lips as she draw the empty goblet away from her mouth.

The effect wasn’t as instantaneous as Fae wine usually was. She made eye contact with Rhys, meeting his concerned gaze. She nodded at him, as if to say she was okay, but realised as she moved, that she was in fact, not okay.

Things weren’t blurry how they usually were, no, they were in great focus. She could see the miniscule dust particles floating under the harsh lights of the court. As half the candles in the room were suddenly put out, the vibe to the room became more electric. The band were playing grimier music, or maybe she was just feeling it rattle her bones more. The music was coursing through her body, sending vibrations through her stomach, down her legs and to her feet. It was so hard to focus on more than other things at a time, as if her senses were struggling to keep up with the magnification. Yes, it was as if everything was magnified, more sensual even.

She looked around the room to what else could assault her senses when her eyes skittered over Rhys. He was still looking at her, but this time, with less concerns. Though the room was not dimly light, she could see that his pupils were dilated. She could barely make out his iris they were so dark. It brough out his dark hair she felt. Such beautiful dark hair, wavy and soft. She wanted to touch it.

She hadn’t realised she was walking to him until she was right in front of him, almost touching him. Looking at him, the rest of the world had gone out focus, but she could vaguely hear people moaning and laughing around her. She wondered what Rhys would sound like moaning. His voice was so deep, his words so careful. She wondered if he ever let go to enjoy himself.

She titled her head, staring deep into his eyes, just breathing. As she was being consumed with the sight of Rhys, a scent came to her. His smell, she instinctively knew. It was warm and crisp, like the beginnings of a campfire at midnight, like the primal smell of unhindered wildness, far away from civilisation. It was addictive, and she wanted to smell more.

Following the pull in her gut, she travelled her tattooed hand up his chest, her nails scraping up the back of his neck and into his hair. She was right, it was soft. With the feeling of her hand on him, Rhys had closed his eyes, leaning his head forward to give her hand greater access. She didn’t like that. Feyre wanted to see his face. The hand caressing his hair tightened, giving a not so gentle tug, pulling his head back up. Rhys had wild eyes when he met Feyre’s. Perhaps it wasn’t just his eyes that felt passion coursing through it, Feyre herself felt it all over.

At her mercy, Rhys mouthed Feyre’s name, his voice too raspy to make it clearly to her ears. Feyre’s eyes studied Rhys’s face, looking for the desire she knew reflected in her. Then it hit her. She was the human here pulling at a Fae’s hair. If he wanted to break her hold, he could; but he hadn’t. It wasn’t an enthusiastic yes, but is enough for Feyre to lean forward into Rhys’ exposed neck and drag her nose up and down it, desperate to get closer to that salivating scent.

***

If Feyre thought her senses were magnified, it had nothing on what Rhys was experiencing. It took everything in him not to jump her that second. While she was confused by what was pulling her instinctively towards him, Rhys was not. He knew that the drink they’d been forced to ingest for Amarantha’s entertainment not only heightened senses but lowered inhabitations drastically. It was a drug made by magic that compelled its consumers seek pleasure.

While Feyre was filled with desire in general, Rhys was overwhelmed with the essence of _mate_ standing before him. He didn’t care about the music, the lights, the other guests. Rhys had the person he’d dreamed of for hundreds of years standing before him. He was so overtaken with need, he was even scared of himself a little.

God he wanted her. He wanted her so badly. The way she looked at him now, all lustful smiles and dark eyes, she was gorgeous. Not only was she gorgeous, she covered in his marks. A sick sense of pride and possessiveness filled him at the thought. No one would touch her. Not tonight. If they tried tonight, he wouldn’t hesitate to incinerate their minds. He was terrified that someone would try, but as the seconds ticked by that part of him drifted away and replaced by the desire for someone to try. Let them. Let them die trying. And let everyone realise how fucked they would be if they crossed him.

They way she walked towards him now was making him wild. The will in his body to fight the drug was fading. She was everything. Strength. Intelligence. Light. Beauty. Fair. God he wanted her.

“Feyre,” he tried to say but his throat was so choked it barely came out. He needed to warn her. She needed to know that her feelings at the moment were not true. He needed to reassure her that he would still protect her as they stand so vulnerable to the world.

He wanted her so badly but he held tooth and nail onto reason. He needed to be –

She scraped her nails up his neck. _Oh god_. A shiver wracked up his spine at being touched by her. Her hands were so deliberate, trailing up into his hair. The eye contact between them was lighting a fire in his belly he didn’t know if he could put out.

His will to hold on was failing him. He’d wanted her since the first moment he’d seen her, but in the last few weeks, he’d let her see more of him. Let her see the humanity he’d shoved under the mask he wore under the mountain. It had reassured her that he wasn’t the villain in this story. Slowly she let down her guard enough to banter with him and occasionally flirt. He lived for those moments.

But this evening. When she’d taken off her clothes and stalked to wards him. He was lucky he was too stunned to do anything they’d regret. He had been riddled with lust, feeling as if it might combust within him. She was brave, and naughty, and thought he was magnetic. Just the thought of it had him leaning forward into her. If he got closer, maybe he could pick up in reality where his imagination had left off.

That evening, he wanted to do more than see her naked skin, he wanted to touch it. Feel where she was soft and tender. Hear her moan his name.

He let out a gasp when Feyre suddenly tugged on his hair. _Fuck_. Looking at her in the moment, he knew he’d do anything she asked in that moment. He would drop to his knees and begin pleasuring her that very moment if she asked. All she need do is ask. She needed to ask.

He stared at her longingly, begging her with his eyes to do something, anything.

The moment was heady as they locked eyes.

Slowly, Feyre leaned forward into Rhys neck, bring her own closer to his nose. She smelt like lightening and musk. The power she was displaying over him was so attractive, god she could do anything she wanted to him and he’d love it. If she was this dominant now, he wondered what she would be like in bed.

As she breathed him in, her nose tickling his neck, his last tether to reason fell apart.

The arms that had strained to stay by his sides, rose up, one tightening around Feyre’s waist to pull her close, the other coming to hold her jaw roughly. Their roles reversed as she shivered and gasp, and Rhys moved his mouth to her neck, sucking fiercely. He would leave marks, he knew it, wanted it.

An angry male cry broke out from the front of the room, but neither Feyre nor Rhys paid them any mind. They were too wrapped up in each other.

Feyre moaned under Rhys’ ministrations. He laved her neck, all lips, tongue and teeth. The little bites he left behind had Feyre pulling him even closer. There was no space between their bodies. Rhys knew Feyre must feel him straining against his pants, against her stomach. After a particularly hard bite at the junction of her shoulder to her neck, Feyre cried out Rhys’ name.

He pulled back abruptly and pressed their foreheads together gruffly, his lips red and wet. “Oh god, say it again,” he demanded softly. The sound of his name of her lips like that, it did things to him. He could feel his heartbeat everywhere, in his throat, and pulling through his cock.

Just as abruptly as he’d pulled away, he ducked down to grab Feyre behind her thighs and pulled her up to wrap her legs around him. Feyre gave no objections, only responding by wrapping her arms around his neck tightly leaving no space between them.

With no hesitation, Rhys backed Feyre into the closest wall, right next to the drinks table they’d both tried to get to earlier. Pushed hard up against the wall as they were, Rhys could feel everything. He could feel her breasts pushed into his chest. He could even feel her heartbeat pulsing between her legs.

 _Good_ , he thought exhilaratingly, she was just as much effected by his presence as he was of hers.

Breathing the same air in a hot daze, Rhys wasn’t sure who made the first move, but they had begun grinding their hips together. It was slow and hard. He wanted her to feel every inch of him, of what he could offer her. There was barely two layers of clothes between them. That could be remedied so quickly, all his mate need do is ask. He would have her screaming his name. He barely registered that they were in public but it didn’t matter. He was too overcome. He couldn’t wait to take her somewhere more private. He’d her body the best he could from prying eyes but would let her moans be heard far and wide across the room. Let all the males know who Feyre belonged with.

“Say my name, Feyre darling,” Rhys repeated. His voice was all low and jagged. He was half demanded and half begging. He needed to hear it again. To know it had been real.

***

With the grinding, Feyre had fallen down the wall minutely, their hips now completely aligned. He pushed hard, feeling her heat. He needed - oh god he knew what he needed but he couldn’t. Not until Feyre-

Pleasure wracked through Feyre, causing her to push her body away from the wall and into Rhys. They were straining at each other, their mouths just a mere inch apart. Feyre bridged the distance and pressed their mouths together.

It was blindingly exciting to feel this desire course through her and take over her every thought. Her body was moving without her telling it to, she just wanted… she wanted so much. But there was something, something she was supposed to remember, but couldn’t.

She pressed in again, their lips meeting. Rhys sucked on her bottom lip, alternating between biting it lightly to pressing his soft lips against it. In a quick swipe, his tongue was in her mouth too. It met hers and something just lit inside her. She needed to get closer. Now. She needed to get closer now.

Their movements were getting rougher. No doubt she would have bruises. But so would he. In their kiss, she grinned savagely. Hers. He was hers.

“Mine,” Feyre growled at Rhys, barely pulling back an inch. He whimpered and nodded vigorously, pulling her in again. She was constantly shifting in his arms, being pressed against his cock and pulled higher on the wall to make up for her slipping down. It was strange that had no control over something as simple as staying upright, but she found she didn’t might. Not. At. All.

That fact that he could lift her for so long was an immense turn on. The muscles in his arms were straining with her weight, his veins sitting visibly on top of his muscles. She wanted to trace her tongue over them, see where they went. She wanted to see if his skin was as soft as it looked, or it was hard and calloused. She wanted to taste the saltiness that would mare his skin. She wanted him. Badly.

Their tongues fought for battle, for dominance, neither giving in.

Battle.

Violence.

She was here for something like that, she thought vaguely. 

It was incredibly difficult to think straight with such pleasure coursing through her, begging for more. But fought it. Something in her was desperate to find the surface, to get a deep breath.

She ripped her mouth from Rhys and rested her cheek against his, their hips slowing slightly. Rhys turned towards her, his breath blowing hot air into her ear, making he shiver. As his lips traced the shell of her ear, she felt herself falling back into the headiness. It would be so easy. It was the distraction she’d craved all the day.

_Wait, the distraction … from what?_

Feyre was confused. She was missing something.

“Rhys?” she whispered into his ear, bewildered but still breathy. She didn’t know how long they’d been going for. It could have been a couple of minutes or an hour. Time meant nothing to her at that moment. But she might need Rhys’ help to sooth her worries. Sooth the niggling feeling that all was not right.

***

Her voice, a far cry from the moans he’d heard moments before shook him out of his trance. Feyre obviously still wanted him, he could feel that evidence pressed up against him, her heat still quaking with desire.

He pulled back to look at her face. Whatever was wrong he’d fix it. Looking in her eyes, he saw that she was searching. For what, he didn’t know. Didn’t remember, maybe.

Still on high alert for whatever had caused her to sound a little scared, Rhys looked up and to the side, taking in his surroundings. They weren’t alone. Of course, they weren’t along, goddamit, he’d lost himself, forgotten that he was in public.

He lowered Feyre carefully to the ground, holding onto her even as her feet made contact, ensuring that she was settled and safe. Slowly, he turned around, reaching out to crowd Feyre behind him, away from view.

The throne room. They were in the throne room.

Amarantha had spiked their drinks. For what purpose, though? Looking up at the devil herself, he need only see her shit-eating grin and the rageful expression of the blonde man sitting at her feet to know why. Amarantha wanted to break Tamlin, to break Feyre. The easiest way to do that was get them to doubt their love for each other.

For each other.

The thought hit Rhys like a freight train. Though Feyre was his mate, she was someone’s love.

Disappointment and shame slammed into him. Feyre didn’t want this. Want him. It was the drugs. And he’d lost control to it. Let himself give in to the desire when she needed him most to keep a level head. He turned back to her to view the damage he’d done. The tattoos that were drawn all over her was almost all messed up. There wasn’t a place he hadn’t run his hands over. The thought gave him great pleasures, that he immediately shoved down.

Not his.

More awareness shone in Feyre’s eyes too, but not much. After all, she wasn’t just drugged, she was drunk too. Fae wine was strong even when it was watered down.

Rhys knew he had to keep the situation under control. He couldn’t give in again, as much as he wanted to. She didn’t want this. He wouldn’t force himself on her. He wouldn’t.

Taking a step back, he was surprised to see Feyre step towards him instantly. Her hand raised to rest on his chest. “You’re not leaving me are you?” she asked worriedly.

The connection between them, the magnetism, it was still strong. The drug was less potent in their system than it was however long ago they’d ingested it, but it would take a while to be fully rid of it. In the meantime, Rhys and Feyre were still so drawn to each other.

Rhys needed a solution that could satisfy their cravings to be close, but without the risk that they’d end up against the wall like they had just moments ago. Even thinking about being up against that wall had Rhys’ willpower crumbling. She’ felt so good against him. So responsive and powerful.

Not wanting to let her go, Rhys reached his hand up to hold Feyre’s over his heart. Interlocking their fingers, they simply stared at each other. They could easily fall back in. Easy as breathing. But they couldn’t. Not when the man Feyre loved was glaring daggers at them.

Still holding hands, Rhys led Feyre over to table and chairs. The other guests in the room made no apologetic faces as they watched them avidly, spectators to a mating dance they hadn’t realised they were watching.

Rhys sat down on a chair, with Feyre in front of him. Her eyes were glued to his, but not quite as acutely than they had been before. There was more to her than desire now. _Good_.

Rhys smiled, a true smile, as he saw how beautifully dishevelled and lively Feyre looked like this. So unlike the empty shell he had seen greet him at the prison hall earlier that day. He’d be lying if he said he got her drunk every night just to make Tamling enraged. He also just loved seeing Feyre smile. She did it so rarely.

But there it was, plastered on her face in that moment. She was watching him with gentleness and longing, like she liked what she saw and wanted to keep staring. Rhys could relate.

“Will you dance for me, my love?” Rhys requested. Hoping the distance between their bodies would stop them from reigniting their earlier fire, but close and connected enough to satisfy the cravings racing through them both.

Feyre nodded and smiled even bigger, her cheeks dimpling with the effort. Rhys inhaled quietly. He hadn’t realised she had dimples. _Dear god she was heavenly._

In front of him, Feyre began swaying her hips, her hands rising to flow above her hand, in beat with the music. What had been rogue between them before had turned into something sweeter, but magnetic all the same. Rhys’ eyes travelled down her sensual body, praying, to whatever god their may or may not be, that he’d get the opportunity to smile, dance, and kiss her with no threats, no prisons, and no drugs to induce it.

 _Just give me the chance, and I swear, I won’t let it pass me by_.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to hear prompts from you guys as to what one shot to write next x


End file.
